


camlann

by betony



Category: 15th Century CE RPF, Arthurian Mythology
Genre: Gen, Implied/Referenced Character Death
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-12-14
Updated: 2014-12-14
Packaged: 2018-03-01 08:56:42
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 602
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2767229
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/betony/pseuds/betony
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The door creaks open sometime after midnight. Their uncle stands silhouetted in torchlight.</p>
            </blockquote>





	camlann

**Author's Note:**

  * For [metonomia](https://archiveofourown.org/users/metonomia/gifts).



> Cross-posted from Tumblr and based on the prompt _mythological/historical, Edward V and Richard of York, -the once and future king-_ from metonomia. Warnings for dodgy legend, even more dodgy history, a way more Shakespearean Richard III than I usually write, and fairly strongly hinted child murder (as to be expected with the Princes in the Tower).

The door creaks open sometime after midnight. Their uncle stands silhouetted in torchlight. 

Neddy, as the oldest, lumbers to his feet. His hands itch for a sword, although he has yet to be trusted with even the wooden practice swords the pages of the court brandish. Behind him, little Dickon sleeps on, boyish curls splayed across his pillow. 

_I have to protect him,_ Neddy thinks. _I have to protect my brother._

He squares his shoulders, frail as they are. “What do you want?” he demands as regally as possible. It is a poor attempt; Neddy never had much patience for courtly manners. 

“Your Grace.” Richard sweeps into a bow—a magnificent thing, a spectacle of sarcasm. Neddy’s cheeks burn at the unspoken reprimand, but he says nothing. 

“I expect,” says his uncle, seemingly apropos of nothing, “springing from the Woodville witch’s womb in this very tower is a much simpler path to the throne than any nonsense about swords and stones.” 

“Not that I would know,” snaps Neddy before he can think better of it, “seeing as how you had yourself crowned and anointed before I could even properly enter London-town.” 

“Ah, but we both know that was never my cross to bear, was it?” Richard, and as one, their eyes drift towards the still-slumbering Dickon. 

“’ _Rex quondam, rexque futures._ ’ What’s a _Titulus Regius_ to that?” murmurs Richard, as though to himself, and his gaze is sad when he looks on Dickon. 

_Faugh!_ Neddy thinks to himself. All he feels is rage; rage at Richard’s feigned pity, rage that he was not allowed to take the burden of the crown as he had meant to, rage that though all the centuries, he can still remember the fall of Camelot and his brother’s heartbroken cries: _Kay, Kay, where did we go wrong?_

“He can’t bear it again,” he says instead, voice thick. That might be Arthur’s atonement for his many sins; to be cursed with kingship in life after life, but it has taken too great a toll on him at last. When Dickon’s eyes are open, they are unnaturally weary, despite his young age. 

“Do you presume,” replies Richard, with maddening deliberation—Neddy recognizes, however, that this is in fact the first sign that he is truly angry, “that I don’t know that? That is why I am here, on this godforsaken night, instead of sleeping in my wife’s arms.” He pushes the door behind him further open. “Go on, then. Wake that brother of yours before it’s too late.” 

Startled, Neddy moves to obey, but curiosity holds him still. There is no dearth of people who might have chosen to rescue Arthur: Morgan, Merlin, Gawain, Bors, Lancelot, and many more. But Richard, though, is clearly none of them. 

“Who are you?” he asks, crossing his arms across his chest, a habit of long standing that is nothing short of laughable in this child’s body. 

For a moment, Richard seems appalled. “I never expected it would be this difficult. If nothing else, it’s not the only time I took it upon myself to set Arthur free.” 

For the first time that Neddy can remember, Richard laughs—and it is that, more than anything he might have said, or the stoop of his shoulders, or even the fall of his dark hair, that brings the correct name to his lips. 

“Mordred.” 

Richard stops laughing, but the smile remains, crooked as ever. “Hello, uncle,” he says, not without irony. “Now if I may, let us send my father back where he belongs.” He advances into the room, closer to the sleeping boy. 

Neddy follows.


End file.
